The Silver in You
by WorksofthePress
Summary: Hermione Granger is trying her best to overcome the effects of the war. She works day-in and day-out. She takes her medicine. She sees her psychiatrist. It isn't enough. Draco Malfoy is running. He knows they will find him, and he dreads the moment. My first fanfiction ever. Rated M for language and maybe sexual content later on. Dramione. TW: Mental Illness.
1. Chapter 1

His hands hit the lichen-covered forest floor with a thud that jarred his bones.

 _No time to waste- Run... Run! RUN!_

And he did. He scrambled over the moss, returning to his feet clumsily as he scrabbled forward through the trees. The dusky morning fog cooled the harsh scratches that covered his hands and forearms. Loping through the rocks and the dirt was difficult for him now. The past few months had been rough at best. But he had to keep running.

 _Have to keep running - have to!_

It was so close now. The tree was unassuming as could be in the expansive wood. But he had memorized the intricate curl of the lower branches... How could he not have? The night this chase had begun those branches were his one point of concentration, from then on his anchor to sanity.

He slid to his knees a few feet short of his goal and scrambled desperately the rest of the way. Underneath those branches, he drove his trembling hands into the soil. His knuckles scraped against the sides of the surrounding roots, but he continued digging.

 _YES!_

He had found it. Half of him had expected them to track it back here easily. Every day he tried reassuring himself, tried telling himself that they hadn't had a reason to notice the specific place.

In a strange way, he thought himself lucky that he was the first person they had caught.

* * *

A drop of rain hit her forehead.

"Great," she mumbled. It was a fairly thoughtless comment, just a grumble in her daily routine. A daily routine that she actually quite liked. Her work at the Ministry gave her a sense of purpose, a feeling that she had work worth doing. Due to her famously adventurous past, this was a feeling she had grown very used to and depended on daily.

She woke that morning hoping to walk to work. It was unnecessary, yes, but something she did quite frequently. It reminded her of the early morning walks she used to take with her mother on weekends. The nostalgia distracted her from the loneliness that crept in, and the feeling of the air against her skin kept her feeling _there_. She had experienced panic attacks before work a few times, and while coworkers had been immensely respectful of her condition (even reverent at times), it hurt her pride to admit to the attacks.

Coffee in one hand, she set her briefcase down on the pavement for a quick moment to retrieve her wand from a pocket in her robes. With a quick flick of the wrist and an unintelligible mumble, she conjured an umbrella which floated directly above her head. She smiled a little to herself, collected her things, and stepped out onto the path. The walk would take her about thirty minutes.

She was greeted at the Ministry by a brand new stack of files on her desk. She sat primly in her chair and began the paperwork for her last case, a whopper of an issue that she had worked on solving for months. A few loopholes had been found in Wizarding laws still allowing House Elves to be traded across families - a popular practice for this involved crating them and sending them on dangerous ships which moved between Britain and Spain. House Elves were not clearly defined as either "Beings" or "Beasts" by the Ministry. This was largely to blame for the travesty, as well as some inconsistencies in magical commerce laws. After many sleepless nights and a _lot_ of pacing around the fourth floor she had finally, _finally_ resolved the issue. Now all that was left were a few signatures and a final report. Easy. And she grinned to herself as she worked. Many lives would be improved by what she had just finished.

A loud, hearty voice interrupted her easy pattern.

"Miss Granger!" A large, dark haired, jolly man stood in her doorway. He rapped the door frame twice with his meaty knuckles before stepping inside.

"Mr. Beak! So nice to see you!" She exclaimed, gently closing her folder and standing. She held out a tiny hand, and it was engulfed by his own. "To what do I owe this visit of yours?"

"Well, it has escaped no one that your recent work on this house elf case is one for the history books! My dear, we heard rumours across every floor of the work you were up to, but we certainly never expected this! Why, through your prowess and almost yours alone, many wizarding laws are being revised, reconsidered - changed! You've created some amazing ripples out in the community!"

She blushed a bit, smiling softly, though her forehead crinkled with concern. She had expected the attention and she understood the extent of her actions. Of course, she knew with every fiber of her soul that she had done the right thing, but she also knew that many would harbor just a little more anger towards her with every move she made to change the wizarding world. It stung her. It should not have, she knew, but it did. These days, though she worked day in and day out to return to her old self, she was fragile.

Mind you, she wasn't fragile in the normal sense. Hermione Granger would never _ever_ be one of those people that fumbled under pressure or trembled under the gaze of another. What she suffered at the moment was a simple problem of the mind - a place where her beliefs and current environments did not match her body's reactions. St. Mungo's called it "Battle's Breath". Her muggle psychiatrist called it PTSD.

"I was wondering, Hermione," Gregory Beak continued, "if you had further considered our offer to you about that higher position. Of course it is still open, just waiting for the day you come to snatch it up!" He grinned hugely and smacked his hand down on her shoulder. She flinched hard.

Her muscles did not relax much as she replied, though her voice seemed (mostly) nonchalant, all business. "Mr. Beak, you know how honored I am to receive this offer. It pains me, but I still believe that it is best for all if I stay on the fourth floor. For now, at least."

Beak had not failed to notice her reaction to his sudden, somewhat gruff, movements. Apologetically, he slowly removed his hand and regarded her. She hated the gentleness that coworkers often felt forced to show her. It made her angry with herself, deep deep down, in a place where her psychiatrist had suggested she avoid looking for a while. Yet, at the same time, the old Hermione felt grateful at the kindness. She smiled, though it was only her lips that did so.

"Of course, of course, Miss Granger! I do assure you that this offer will not be going anywhere!" Once again the man was one large, jovial chuckle. " 'Brightest Witch of Her Age'," he bragged on, "more like brightest witch of our century! With work like yours, it is the Ministry itself that is honored!"

She did blush at that, an almost-forced giggle bubbling out. "Oh, Greg, you sure do like to lay it on thick! I'll let you know, of course, when... When I'm ready for the job."

"No doubt, Miss Granger! No doubt!" And he chuckled happily to himself once more as he left the small room. She sighed deeply, shoulders falling a bit uncomfortably as she willed her body to relax a little.

 _Just signatures, Hermione_ , she reminded herself. _Even if your mind does start wandering... it's all just signatures for today. Don't stress about trying to destress. Don't. Please, please, don't..._

* * *

As the sun dipped lower, the overcast grey shifted to an overcast purple and then an overcast dark-grey. Draco Malfoy sipped at his flask, drops of the clear liquid pooling at the edges of his lips and dripping down to his chin. It was the shaking, of course. His hands had tremored mercilessly since that night. A bitter huff of air left his nose. The tree on his back felt almost comfortable at this point. He thought back to satin sheets and soft mattresses at his home. For once, his breathing slowed.

His flask lowered to his side, and he carefully placed it back in the scratchy piece of fabric that carried his few possessions. He brought his hand back up, still covered in tiny bits of soft black soil and dotted with indentations from the rocks of the forest floor, to grab his hair - force a bit out of his eyes. Run his hand through it once more out of habit. His thoughts were slow, and he let his chin loll forward into his chest. Sleep welcomed him for a few hours.

He awoke desperately. Eyes shooting open, bulging. His heart hammered in his chest. His mind blasted furiously around, subconsciously seeking a reason for this animal terror. He knew enough, even sleep-deprived and drowsy, to grab his sack of things and check his pockets before scrambling onto his feet and running hard.

Trees whipped past him. Incredibly weak, sure, but Draco had not lost his resolve. He was quick still, as fear often makes one. Sodden branches scraped his ankles, one of them opening a long trickle of blood straight up his shin as he lifted his leg. Didn't even feel it. Felt nothing.

Just the fear.

He ran until it became a huffy jog, and then jogged until it became a slow and painful stumbling. By the time a streetlight passed above him, the uncoordinated dance of his numbed legs looked positively drunken. The muggle street was empty, save this scraped, thin, wildly ungroomed shell of a man.

Just the fear.

Tired to the point of seeing double, Draco only just barely noticed his slow pace. A deluge of images attacked his mind, and for a moment he recognized the danger of his drowsiness. He realized painfully that his body absolutely could not move any quicker. Fear. Agony. A flashback of brutalizing pain. He began to wail.

He didn't hear the quick bark of the siren.

* * *

The headline the next morning caught Hermione by surprise.

It was a Saturday, and she was not to report to work. This was not a "Ministry closes its doors on Saturday's" issue at all, however. This was a "Greg Beak is more perceptive than it seems and had a boss insist on giving her a few days off" issue. It irked her. She _needed_ something to delve into. No reflecting on herself or her friends, no quietness - no flashbacks, no loneliness.

Friends suggested she get lots of rest. When she did manage to see them, that is. After the war had ended, life was fine for a while. It took a few months for the rubble in her brain to settle into its current landscape. And then she withdrew.

Ron noticed it first, of course. He would shake her shoulder, speak loudly in her ear, wave things in front of her face to break her from her stupors. He made her flinch.

Harry and Ginny were the ones to really approach her about her problem. They were more gentle, they regarded her with a quiet pity that at first she had completely ignored. Now the reminder of it plummeted thorns into her soul.

Partially, she pulled deeper away from her friends because of these things. Partially, she just did it - no reason or thought behind the gesture other than a nagging tiredness and a dull throb where her emotions should have been.

She ended things with Ron, and as soon as he had left her home she felt anguish. Speaking with him, breaking the news to him, that all had been numb. This now made her wail and clutch the carpet, body spasming. No tears, however. Just a lot of guilt - for hurting Ron, and, more secretly within herself, for ruining her own chance at happiness.

Two years later and the connections they had had as friends at school were loosening still. She felt better. She experienced happiness. She took her medicine. But the loneliness had become so comfortable and familiar, and their faces triggered flashbacks sometimes. They loved each other. Her friends would not just forget her. But they gave her space as much as she indicated she needed, and she was a faded shade of grateful for this.

It helped to work, just as it helped to see her psychiatrist. It was therapeutic to drown in her puzzles as she always had. Work reminded her of a time when she felt in control. Obviously, she attempted to explain this to her boss, but he had quickly reminded her of her lack of breaks the past year.

"Surely," he bellowed, "that even if working helps, it is unhealthy how you work day in and day out. Go home, Miss Granger! I do so hope you will thank us for this!" He said it with conviction and the best of intentions. He was wrong, though.

She woke early that morning from a shallow slumber. Sleeping was difficult for her still, especially on days where she had panicked. Giving up on her useless urges to doze, she rose, joints cracking like those of an old woman and toes recoiling at the cold touch of the wood floor, to make herself some tea. Her mind was thankfully quite empty as she stared into her mug - an incredibly rare happening indeed. She jumped a bit when the post came in, but it wasn't a jump that jarred her or derailed her sense of self. Maybe the paper would have something worth distracting herself with.

Oh boy, did it.

 _Malfoy Heir Finally in Custody: Former Death Eater Driven Mad_

Really then? They had found him?

Hermione, like most others in the wizarding community, had been following the Malfoy case curiously. Lucius and Narcissa tried initially to keep their noses low to the ground following the war. Their son had made this quite difficult.

Draco had been reportedly spotted a handful of times. At one point, he had supposedly hexed another wizard who had spotted him on the street and had the inspired idea to shout unintelligibly, point in the Malfoy's direction, and stare with mouth agape. Hermione had laughed a bit at that. She supposed that Draco Malfoy would have hexed anyone to treat him so unceremoniously, regardless of his exact mental state.

For the most part, however, whispers of the young man hovered about all of the local pubs. Having not seen him in so long, the public had begun to conjecture. Many resided under the belief that his tutelage under the Dark Lord had driven him absolutely bonkers, and they claimed he was running rampant in the forests. Some believed he was waiting in the shadows, hoping to somehow make a Quirrell-esque reappearance, bringing the evil back to the wizarding community. A great many just assumed him dead. Young witches (mostly those just a bit too young to have really known him back at Hogwarts) and a few young wizards believed he was out doing some sort of heroic, masculine... thing. They never really had an exact answer to what he could logically be doing out there for the good of humanity. They just liked the old pictures of him, Hermione thought.

Now, finally, it seemed like the public would receive what it so eagerly awaited from the unfortunate young aristocrat: answers.

Hermione turned the pages, eager as any other to know what had become of her old schoolmate.

" _For most, last night was a calm and peaceful night. For Draco Malfoy and the police in the muggle town of Kempsey, Worcestershire, however, this was not the case._

 _The only heir to the Malfoy fortune and infamy has caused quite a scandal with his disappearance from society shortly following the Battle of Hogwarts. The young man lived in Malfoy Manor for a time after the war, until, one fateful night, a troubled Narcissa Malfoy filed a missing person's search. Shortly thereafter, reported sightings of Mr. Draco Malfoy flooded into officials' arms. These reports, however, failed to shed any light on the hiding place of the young Malfoy, and often led to a great amount of confusion among the public and authorities alike._

 _Last night, a supposed end to this great confusion finally began. At approximately 3:35 a.m., Kempsey police officers brought a man into custody. The official report tells us that the original cause for approaching said man was a suspected case of public drunkenness. However, under further investigation, the man was proven to be not drunk, but rather, mentally incapable. Kempsey police, before they were Memory Charmed, asserted that the young man had been 'completely unintelligible in his speech. He walked as though he were drunk, and, when questioned, was unable to observably understand his situation.'_

 _Wizarding authorities were alerted to Mr. Malfoy's location after a few officers suffered at the hands of a Jelly-Legs Jinx, which police now tell us is considered to have been 'completely accidental'._

 _The young Mr. Malfoy is currently in care at St. Mungo's, where only his parents have been permitted to see him. What will become of the only child of this once proud family? Will the public ever again see the face of Draco Malfoy? Only time will tell."_

Hermione harrumphed. Now this was her kind of puzzle. A young wizard, with all of the funds in the world and a path seemingly leading to some sort of redemption suddenly disappears without a trace into the night? And he manages to avoid all forms of tracking until he _accidentally_ stumbles into a _muggle_ police station, suddenly raving-mad?

It was Draco Malfoy. Draco. Fucking. Malfoy. She should not be interested in her childhood tormentor. She should _definitely_ not be interested in _anything_ to do with a former Death Eater, especially in her current state. And yet, at this moment, she was not shaking with the lulling pull of an upcoming flashback or the heavy fluttering in her veins that signaled a panic attack. Rather, the gears in her head were grinding heavily, more heavily than they had in a long time. So much of this just seemed so damn strange. It seemed so un-Malfoy... Welcomingly, it also seemed quite un-Death Eater. She took a sip of tea, which was now cold, and wrinkled her nose. But her eyes never left the paper she held. How could they?

How could she pass up this puzzle?


	2. Chapter 2

It would take her two weeks to work up the nerve.

She returned to work with a renewed vigor - one she hadn't realized she had lost in the first place.

The weekend had passed at a maddening pace, no matter how busy she kept herself. Hermione had spent the first few hours of that Saturday morning delving in to the Malfoy issue. Scuttling into her small personal library, she tracked down her favorite book on mental health issues. It was a Muggle title, thick and heavy. On the nights in which she questioned her ailment and felt the guilt pooling at the bottom of her stomach, her fingers traced out the familiar passages in this book which reassured her that her illness did, in fact, exist, and was considered to be a problem not with her personality but with her brain. The book told her that she wasn't subconsciously doing this on purpose. It let her know that she was just a bit possessed by something out of her control.

Working on Draco's issue was much harder than she expected. The newspaper article left a lot to be desired in terms of symptoms. She settled for making one list covering the symptoms and one to conjecture different illnesses that she found made sense in the situation.

"Okay, okay," she mumbled to herself. "He ran away. That's a big one - reckless behavior maybe? Or it could be some form of avoidance." That one turned a knife in her stomach. Was he avoiding his parents, then? It would certainly make sense. Perhaps Lucius had done this to his own son. It would not be the first time the elder Malfoy had surrendered his heir to what could possibly be a lifetime of torment.

 _The article mentioned that he was "unaware" of his situation and speaking unintelligibly. Those are two pretty big issues. Maybe he_ had _been a little drunk... or maybe it really was Schizophrenia..._

 _An accidental hex, too. Why would...? How...?_

"What the hell is an accidental hex?" She blurted in irritation. Scrunching the newspaper in one hand and bringing it closer to her face - as if it would make the issue easier - she just scowled at it. Her face in that moment carried an ancient sort of darkness, leaving her devoid of her somewhat petite features and instead a depiction of demons of old. She could feel her bitterness wisping through her belly like smoke. Sighing, she attempted to smooth out the deep wrinkles that had suddenly appeared in her forehead.

There were far too many possibilities for this case. And what the damn hell was she trying at, here in her happy place trying to solve it? At any moment the thought of his face or what _he_ had been through could trigger a flashback or a panic attack. She wanted neither. Her library was for relaxing these days, for calming her ever-shaking body.

She stood up suddenly and left the library to pace in her common room. If she was going to let her mind into perilous places, she ought to do it somewhere other than her only safe place. Besides, there was nowhere near enough room in the library to pace with this kind of dedication.

 _Lucius Malfoy taking out his fury on his son... Had he not done so before?_ In the few times she had the misfortune to meet Draco with his father, the elder Malfoy had seemed to almost constantly correct or rebuke his son - in a slimy, snake-y sort of way. Perhaps the constant manipulation at the hands of his family, combined with what the stress of his Death Eater responsibilities seemed to wreak on him _had_ driven him out of his mind. The papers could be right. He could just be a nut.

Wasn't she "a nut" herself though? Really, after all that she had been through with her mental illness and what she witnessed similar problems had done to her friends, was she okay with the media simply dismissing _anyone_ as a nut? Maybe it really was worth digging into Draco's problem. Her entire generation held scars from the war, and she knew with a Hermione Granger conviction that it wouldn't do to set the bar for addressing mental illnesses so low. No matter what witch or wizard was suffering, the media should not think it okay to simply dismiss the problem. The consequences of that would touch all who were suffering, even if... Well, frankly, even if Draco deserved what he got.

Study on this case would certainly not be stopping anytime soon. She needed more books.

The clouds still loomed in a single, solid formation overhead. No rain, yet, however. Diagon Alley was abuzz. People in robes skittered back and forth across the streets, often either chatting with one another or mumbling thoughtlessly to themselves. An excited nervousness could be felt in the air. A new school year was fast approaching, and the changes to the wizarding community as of late were felt here more than anywhere else Hermione frequented. New curriculum, new expectations, new professors... A new headmaster. A sad thought. Hermione pushed it back with a forceful _And a very honorable headmaster to boot! We're lucky to have her!_ and continued on her way.

Flourish and Blotts was almost upsettingly crowded. She weaved through the crowd, regardless. Luckily, many of the wizarding families present were far too engaged in trying to grab their books to notice her, and many more were families that were new to the wizarding world, brought to this place by their young children. Hermione smiled to herself at the sight. Hogwarts would be more crowded than ever this year, it seemed.

The Bookstore had recently expanded its collection, and for this Hermione was grateful. In a somewhat less crowded corner of the building, she grabbed a few books - _Hexes and Their Affects on the Mind_ , _History of the Wizarding Brain_ , and _Less Common Ailments_. Wizards had a far different outlook on mental issues. At times, this was due to outdated views, but often wizarding theories and treatments on the matter shed new light on the illnesses. Hermione felt pleased with herself as she left, her arms overflowing with new knowledge. It reminded her of her first few years attending Hogwarts, and she stopped on the street to soak in the nostalgia.

"Hermione!" The female voice came from a little ways behind her. Her smile faltered and she wished deeply that it hadn't. But she turned to greet her old friend anyways.

"Ginny! Oh how nice to see you!" She forced a grin that she suspected to look quite real. The beautiful redheaded woman verified this as her smile grew greater and she clapped her hands together before practically jogging towards Hermione.

"Of course, and you as well! Oh, how we've missed you!" She threw her arms around Hermione in a rather awkward hug, as the brunette currently held a few arms full of books.

"Well, what have we got here?" Ginny ventured as she pulled back, still smiling, eyeing Hermione's new purchase. "'Just some light reading?'" she joked. Hermione laughed, and it was mostly real.

"Of course! Got to keep myself sharp, you know." She bumped Ginny playfully with her shoulder. The redhead's joyous grin had not faltered once, so obviously excited to see her old friend acting somewhat normal.

"Oh, what a crock! As if you're _ever anything_ but sharp! Oh, I've missed you so so much, Hermione," she squeaked again. One of her hands touched Hermione's upper arm, and she suddenly felt so sad at the many nights she had spent without Ginny's quick wit and laughter.

"I've missed you too. Very, very much." She meant it, really. "How about you come visit tomorrow? I'm off work all weekend."

Ginny bounced up on her toes and clapped her hands together merrily once more. "Of course! I would love to! How about I bring something over and we can have dinner?"

"It sounds lovely, Gin!" Hermione hoped secretly that she would feel the same way tomorrow. "I can't wait!"

"Oh neither can I! I have so much to tell you!" Her smile faltered a bit as a raindrop hit her nose, and she looked upwards, as if searching for the culprit.

"Looks like farewell for now," Hermione said quickly. Ginny almost looked worried at the short assertion. The brunette watched her friend reassure herself in her mind that Hermione just wanted out of the rain, of course. It was so obvious sometimes what was happening in Ginny's head. And even if her face failed to show it, the shorter young woman wasn't one to keep her thoughts inside for long.

"Oh yes, I suppose I must be going! I've got quite a bit to do before it really starts pouring. Farewell, my dearest! I'm so so excited for tomorrow!" And with that she practically bounced away.

Strangely, for the first time in a long while Hermione felt refreshed by a friend's presence. Perhaps she really was getting better and simply hadn't allowed herself any time to realize that. Perhaps.

Perhaps she could take that job after all.

Once at home, she set the books down on the short, glass-top coffee table in her living area. With a huff, she plopped down on the soft old couch directly behind it, staring down at the titles. If she was truly improving, would this push her backwards again? Could she really handle an attempt to delve into the mind of the Death Eater that watched her be tortured? She shuddered a bit at the reminder of his crimes against her personally. He was a bad man, that was sure. Usually, she felt that everyone deserved a chance at a normal life, a chance to work through their illnesses. Did he, though?

She was ashamed of it, but her conviction was shaken. And her answer to herself was _Maybe not._

Regret at buying the books began to curl around her, but she shook that off in a true Hermione fashion. They were _books_ after all. No matter what she did with them in the long run, buying them could not possibly constitute a waste. If nothing else, she could give them as a gift. More likely, though, she would read them from cover to cover and soak in all that they offered her.

For today, she planned to begin just that. _No more of the Malfoy case for now_ , she chided herself. Just reading, maybe a little relaxation.

"Relaxation" got her nowhere. In fact, the further she ventured into _Hexes and Their Affects on the Mind_ the more responsibility she felt towards Draco himself. Every word reminded her that this did not necessarily concern just the Malfoy heir. Rather, his treatment in the public now held the potential to create a precedent for all witches and wizards suffering from mental illnesses in the future. It had never been a very prominent issue in the wizarding world until now, and this was the first taste of how the issue could be treated by the press.

She owed Draco nothing, save maybe a sharp slap - or worse. In spite of that, she herself now had the opportunity to heal, to live a normal life regardless of the trouble in her brain. Largely, this was due to the fact she kept a foot in both worlds, as muggles (in her opinion) had a somewhat more helpful approach to the issues she dealt with. Many other magical beings, however, had no sort of blessing like this.

She could help. If she could get down to the bottom of Draco Malfoy's illness and somehow change the reception to his problem, she would be helping so many more in the future.

Deep down, the guilt seated in her mind tugged at her, a silent promise to perhaps leave her alone if she did this.

So she would.

Ginny's visit was wonderful. Hermione had woken that morning from a nearly-fitful sleep, and found herself a bit less excited than she had been the day before. She considered owling her friend to "push back" to a later date.

Instead, she forced herself to get out of bed and shower. The warm water against her skin did her wonders. A huge part of the reason she bought the house in the first place was because of the shower. It was large, stone tiling covering the floor and the walls, with a pretty knee-height stone shelf that jutted out in front of her now. It felt like her own private little world. The relaxing colors of the stones coupled with the feel and sound of the water raining down reminded her very much of the thought that she used to summon her patronus. The smell of her strawberry body wash relaxed her, as did the feeling of her own smooth skin - all in one piece, no more wounds or bruises to avoid touching.

She was relaxed enough to begin to wonder about _men_ , even. The thought scarcely bothered her at all. She had enough work cut out for her right now trying to take care of herself.

But right now, the thought of a man was delectable. Her first image was always of Ron, and a split second of bliss never failed to shatter into a myriad of guilt and pain. Instead of letting herself drown in the injury of it all, she pushed his thought away. No time for the same painful conversation with herself she had time and time again gone through. In his place she simply imagined a muggle celebrity she had seen in a magazine at her last psych appointment.

She imagined this big, dark haired man pushing her back into the stone wall. His muscular chest and slightly furry chin were above her, the man incredibly tall. And for a moment she sighed happily, eyes closed, at just the thought of being so close to a man. Her head lolled onto one of her shoulders as the water continued to rivulet down her body. But it wasn't enough to actually _get her going_ , so to speak. _That_ had been difficult since her disorder had first begun creeping into her life.

A little frustrated, but generally in a better mood, she left her shower and wrapped herself in a large, fluffy robe. The bathroom was still very warm, steam floating in the air around her. She leaned against the counter where she kept all of her toiletries and whatnots. For several minutes, she just enjoyed the quietness and the warmth of where she was. Finally, she opened the bathroom door to let the steam out, allowing the mirror to dry slowly as the draft crawled into the room.

Once she was dressed and ready, she spent a bit more time in one of her new books. The post came in with a flutter of owl wings, and Hermione lifted an arm to catch the bundle of papers that the pretty bird dropped above her head before it circled the room once and flew back into the kitchen to leave through the window it had entered in - Hermione had forgotten to close it the night before.

She untied the bundle and pushed her book to the side. Bills greeted her mostly. One letter was an invitation from McGonagall to come visit Hogwarts and see some of the renovations, the thought of which both excited and scared her. Finally, there was a somewhat seedy wizarding magazine that Ginny had insisted she subscribe to a few years ago. The first issue that had ever been delivered to her at first seemed a giant waste of money. However, upon further dissection, Hermione had found that one or two of the writers were actually incredibly gifted journalists with a knack for predicting the truth before anyone else. She kept the subscription.

It shouldn't have surprised her, but it did, nevertheless. The magazine cover was much more simple than it usually was - just one huge headline and a moving photo underneath, no tiny sub-headlines dotting the sides.

Hermione guessed that this would be their best-selling issue in a very long time.

The photo was Draco Malfoy. But it wasn't an old photo of him from his school days like other papers and magazines had used. They must have gotten an exclusive pass to see him, because this was Draco _in St. Mungo's._

Behind him was a plain white wall. He stood up straight. He was wearing slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a black tie. Somehow, even though the clothes must have been delivered by his parents recently, they looked mussed and out of control. The top button of his shirt was undone beneath the tie, the collar not totally laid down on one side. The sleeves were rolled carelessly, bunched up and at slightly different heights.

His white-blond hair was a mess. It reminded her of Harry's almost. The same blond color was covering his chin and jawline in stubble. That was strange to Hermione. It had never been a conscious thought, but it had always seemed like an impossibility for a Malfoy to grow facial hair.

His chin wasn't lifted in its usual manner. He didn't look haughty... Of course, he still looked proud, but it was much farther pushed back than usual. His chin was lowered, and he glared straight into the camera, the shadow of his eyebrows casting a deep shadow over his eyes. It wasn't the glare of a proud rich boy. He looked like a predator. The dangerous glint in his eyes made her shudder.

He was covered in giant scratches. One bloody-looking scrape followed his entire right cheekbone. A dark purple shadow - a bruise - lay over his jaw on the left side. There were scabs right above his right eyebrow, and the left side of his lower lip was split open in a large gash. Bruises and scrapes lined his forearms as well. His hands were balled into fists, and though he was mostly still Hermione could see the tendons moving in the backs of his hands and his arms.

She, as well as many others that morning, brought the magazine closer and closer to her face, trying to see the dark mark. However, with a combination of his own shadow and the angle he had turned his arm, there was no way to make out its presence, no matter how she squinted. She imagined that the image must have looped by now and she had simply missed it. However, when she looked back up, Draco's face was moving.

Ever so slowly, his right eyebrow lifted. She expected his trademark smirk or a sneer to accompany the gesture, but his mouth only twitched a little - a movement that looked more involuntary than anything else. His new expression looked slightly less dangerous, though still quite feral. He looked challenging.

No matter what mental state he might be in, he was still somewhat himself. This photo proved it, as far as Hermione was concerned. And that both strengthened and wavered her resolve to go study him all at once. A human was still in there. But it was a human that she completely and utterly despised.

When Ginny arrived, Hermione was a bit behind on dinner. The redhead hardly seemed to notice as she scurried into the kitchen and practically threw down the turkey she had brought.

Hermione would have jumped if she hadn't heard the witch floo in a moment ago.

"Oh my goodness! Hermione!" Ginny hurriedly whispered.

The brunette witch turned to her, confused. "Yes, Ginny? Is something wrong?" She asked, trying not to whisper back.

Ginny's face moved from a give-me-your-attention and more to a disbelief that she obviously expected her friend to mirror. "Did you see _Magical World Magazine_ today?" She asked, still quick but less quiet.

Hermione relaxed, but returned the expression. "I did! They went and _saw_ Malfoy! Can you imagine how they got that to happen?"

"I _know_!" Ginny's whole body moved with her words, ready to gossip with all her might. "And even weirder! Can you believe how _good_ they made him look? That ugly ferret never looked anything like that back at Hogwarts!"

Hermione had to laugh at that. Ginny was right, of course. The magazine had made Draco out to be the hero that those young witches (and a few wizards) so desperately wanted him to be.

"You're right! It was so weird to look at! He was absolutely feral!"

Ginny laughed back, pulling a wooden chair back and plopping into it. "Sex sells, I guess!"

A giggle. "Is that a saying in the magical world too? I've only ever heard it from muggles."

The night went on beautifully. Ginny informed Hermione all about her new family with Harry, and it was just the wonderful fairytale that the two deserved. Hermione even let the news slip to Ginny about her big job offer, and the redhead had, of course, gushed at the prospect.

As Ginny left, she kissed her friend on the cheek and bubbled about how they "simply must do this again", and Hermione genuinely agreed. The dinner had been wonderful.

As her home slipped back into its usual quietness, Hermione sat down on the couch. The magazine still sat on the coffee table, open to the story of Draco Malfoy. It hadn't actually cast much light on the facts, but she read it through several times anyways, hoping for more clues.

She sighed. The only new knowledge was of Draco's face. He was such a weird mix of himself and someone utterly wild. She grabbed the paper and read the article through one more time as she headed to bed. Once under her fluffy covers, she gave into her frustration with a huff. The article got her nowhere. Angrily, she closed the thing, finding herself face-to-face with that photo again. The shock of it made her pause.

This close to her, those shadowed eyes bothered her. A strange sort of discomfort made her squirm against the mattress. She wasn't quite afraid of him, but she felt thoroughly warned. As well as strangely... aroused. Her heart fluttered at the sight of him and she felt a little bit of that schoolgirl adrenaline.

 _Ugh!_

She tossed the magazine off the bed. Obviously, her body couldn't tell the difference between _this_ Draco and _Draco_. But her mind could, and upon remembrance of his crimes she felt a bit sick with herself. All excitement vanished as she nervously awaited a panic attack, but thankfully it failed to come. This time.

She sighed and rolled over to one side. She could worry more about that awful man the next morning. For now, she distracted herself with thoughts of how nice dinner had been, and a plan to ask Ginny back out again for tea or something similar.

Several hours later, finally calming her ever-working brain, she slept.


	3. Chapter 3

She did not go to work for the next few days. Her state was proof that she had overestimated herself that weekend.

A brush with Draco's eyes, staring at her from her bedroom floor, was enough to finally wear away her previous bliss. She had woken feeling mostly fine, save an uncomfortable and telltale tingling in her bloodstream. A panic attack was approaching, trying to sneak in. Rolling over to lay on her side, she tried the breathing techniques she knew by heart, and for a moment, with her eyes closed tightly, she relaxed a little.

With a soul-deep sigh, she slowly opened her eyes, hoping today she could catch just a little more happiness before it all blew away. The sun shone through her curtains suddenly, signaling the disappearance of the clouds from the past few days. Movement in her room caught her eye, and suddenly she was looking at him.

The eyebrow raise. The bloody eyebrow raise. If it hadn't have moved so suddenly she wouldn't have noticed it. If it hadn't caused her attention suddenly to shift towards menacing, horrifyingly familiar eyes, she would have been fine.

But she was seeing those eyes somewhere else now, the sound of screams erupting in her ears. In her comfy bed at home, she grabbed her arm roughly in reflex, her breaths becoming gasps. Meanwhile, on the cold stone floor of Malfoy Manor, her entire body convulsed in the midst of excruciating pain. Friends lay beside her, but they were already dead, blood dry and heads lolling at unfamiliar angles. Gone. Excruciation.

Terror looking at those grey eyes. Terror looking at the black eyes, the basest evil of humanity. Dead eyes watching. They wonder if she will join them.

In her bedroom, she threw her feet onto the floor, breath scraping out of her lungs. She moved quickly towards her bathroom, eyes in every corner, pain ghosting across her skin but real in her mind. Her hands shook as she grasped the toilet seat, and had she not been so sick she would have been screaming.

* * *

Draco had been staring at his reflexion in the mirror for two hours. The bathroom door was locked. His body was bent over the sink, hands clutching at the sides of the basin. His shoulders were tensed. His body trembled slightly, but otherwise he was oddly still. He was alone, surrounded by white. Surrounded by daylight- _theyknewwherehewas_. Surrounded. Witnesses, though. Yes, there were witnesses. No strikes in front of witnesses. He wouldn't die in front of witnesses. Probably.

He didn't see his face. He saw the night at the roots of that tree. Evil eyes. Death in front of him. No safety, no take-backs, he was going to die.

He didn't die that night. They didn't check. They left him in the woods. They left.

The paranoia wouldn't leave. There was nothing he could explain to his parents, so most often when his mother visited he would say nothing. He couldn't remember if his father's visit had been real or a dream.

Maybe it was best to stay here. In his bouts of clarity, he recognized that. Here, he could regain his strength. Then he could kill those bastards.

Most of the time there weren't many thoughts. Or most of the time there were terrifying thoughts. To be honest, he hadn't much sense of time lately. Something in the machine of his brain was stuck, repeating and repressing simultaneously. He constantly felt as if he were missing something, not totally aware of what was going on.

The doctors were trying their best with him, of course. The money being thrown at him by his parents swiftly overrode most of their curiosity (or disdain) towards him, he assumed. He was surrounded by a cold politeness whenever any sort of professional visited, which both comforted and unnerved him. He had grown up being treated similarly by his father, as if he were an experiment that needed to be carefully monitored. His mother, who had at times been warm to him, appeared terribly disheveled during her visits. She came by daily, stopping inside Draco's room to check on him. Often, they were both silent. He didn't have the mental strength to try to work out what was wrong with her, or even try to guess what she may be thinking. This, too, made him uncomfortable. He was used to constant vigilance, and before he had gone into hiding that had included a sensitivity to what others could possibly be thinking at any given time. Admittedly, he was out of touch when it came to others.

He noticed that his mother was broken, that she sunk in her chair like an old house that had been eaten through by insects and then rained on. Her frame was soft, off-balance, slow-moving, structurally unsound. He noticed, but he couldn't concentrate on figuring out why. Strangely, he wasn't even sure that it bothered him. He felt very apathetic. And very very nervous.

He jumped when he finally noticed the knocking. He quickly stilled again, however, straightening his back, still staring at himself. And he was finally seeing what was really in the mirror, how his face was purple and green and yellow and pink, how he could count the veins in his eyes, how his lips were so chapped that they bled in places. He thoughtlessly fixed some buttons on his shirt. The knocking was still going on. Huh. Right. He should go back outside.

Some time later found him back in his room, surrounded by the white walls and the plain white sheets and the white light that filtered in from the tiny window. He liked it better when it was cloudy out. The sun made the white in his room all the more suffocating. He was sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees. His mom was back on her chair, facing the side of his bed. They were both looking at the floor in between them. Narcissa took a shaky breath. About a minute later, she spoke.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay in there."

"Hm? Yeah, sorry. I was distracted." In the back of his mind, he thought that he didn't want to be curt with his mother. Then he thought about how he might die here soon. His shoulders began to tense up again.

A few more minutes of silence. "Draco..." It came out gruffly, and she cleared her throat. "Where were you... all this time?"

He looked up at her at the question. His eyebrows furrowed, and she saw that his eyes finally seemed capable of focusing on another person. He was frowning slightly, looking very thoughtful, wringing his hands.

"The forest," he finally stated. His eyes flew back down to his hands. "I'm not sure where. It didn't matter to me at the time." His admission sounded just a little ashamed, but mostly flat. They were silent again. Their conversations had been like this since her visits had begun- disjointed, with giant pauses in between subjects (or, at times, sentences).

"I would like some color in here," he offered up suddenly. His mother perked up just a tiny bit at that.

"Mmm... yes." Her eyes slowly traveled along the walls. He was looking at her again, and she just couldn't meet his eyes now that they were finally seeing her. She would have been ashamed to admit it, but she had grown accustomed to her son's strange and distant gaze. The sudden change, accompanied by the wild look in his eyes and the damage to his face, was, honestly, frightening. "Color sounds like a good idea. It's too bright in here. I'll bring you some of your things."

"My own sheets?"

"Of course, my dear."

"Thank you."

* * *

Hermione Granger was standing outside of Purge and Dowse, Ltd. But it wasn't really Purge and Dowse. This was the entrance to St. Mungo's Hospital. Her heart was pounding, and she somewhat bitterly attempted to mentally calm herself. So far, she wasn't having much luck.

She finally decided to focus on what she could do. One foot in front of the other, right? She stepped through the glass window, finding herself not inside of a long-closed department store, but rather in a mostly traditional (in a Muggle sense) hospital. She caught the eye of a friendly witch at the front desk, who immediately perked up. She was short, a bit plump, with an open face and small but focused eyes. She wore an outfit similar to the St. Mungo's uniform for Healers, but hers was blue instead of the usual lime green. Hermione thought this color was much more appropriate for a hospital.

"Oh! Why hello there! If it isn't Miss Hermione Granger, our very own hero!" The woman clapped her hands together and smiled gently. "What brings you to this establishment?"

Hermione laughed, hoping it sounded more comfortable than she felt. "It's... business, today, I suppose. I heard that you were currently housing Draco Malfoy." Seeing the secretary's tiny eyebrows crease slightly at the mention, she decided to backtrack. "I was wondering if perhaps Narcissa were here visiting at the moment, I would like to speak with her."

The restraint paid off immensely. Now finding that Hermione was simply here on business and not to exploit a patient, the small lady jumped at the chance to get to know _the_ Hermione Granger. Hermione could see it in her eyes, and while the secretary herself was pleasant Hermione hated being treated like a savior - whether she was one or not.

A few minutes later, the little secretary witch was guiding Hermione through the twisted hallways. The walls were white, as were the floor tiles and the concrete ceiling. Though large windows allowed warm sunlight inside at frequent intervals, it did little to remedy the sickly feeling of the building. The white did not seem healing or pure, instead seeming as if it were a paling effect similar to that of a terminal illness, like the building itself were sick. Wide white doors dotted the sides of the hallway, seemingly interspersed at random. Each door sported a single, thin, rectangular thick-glassed window on its left side and a silver number directly beneath that. All the while, the smaller witch chattered away, asking Hermione questions and pushing for gossip. The two finally stopped at a door numbered 2904.

With a quick knock, she opened the door, peeking her head in. "Mr. Malfoy, it seems you have another visitor," she sing-songed, turning back to Hermione. Hermione's eyes went wide.

"I thought I was going to speak with Narcissa?" she choked out. She wasn't ready now. She thought she had been. She thought she could face Draco himself. But her hands were shaking and it felt like her veins were too.

"Oh, she just stepped out for lunch I believe. I thought you might find some time with her son helpful as well, if you're comfortable." The secretary appeared quite proud of herself, holding her head high as if she were offering the chance of a lifetime. Truthfully, she very well might have been. With that thought, Hermione straightened her back a bit and tried to appear brave and grateful. Concerning all of the pretending she had done in the past few years, she expected that she would appear genuine.

"Absolutely, thank you very much for the opportunity." With a smile and a nod, the secretary witch opened the door just wide enough for Hermione to slip inside, which she promptly did. The door closed behind her.

* * *

As soon as Draco heard the words "another visitor" he jumped off of the bed violently. For a moment his brain worked in overdrive at two options: fight or hide. _No wand-badly injured-weak._ Hide? Under the bed? In the bathroom with a locked door? No good.

He was facing his doom, and he didn't know if he would be sane enough to remember to scream through it.

The figure that stepped through the open door was, arguably, the most unexpected thing he had ever faced.

Hermione Granger. Small, with an extraordinarily readable face. And she looked frightened.

Were they toying with him? Get his guard down to make the first strike more painful? Who was she really? _AmIgoingtodie?_

The moment she seemed to register his appearance, she took a step backwards, pressing her back and her palms into the already closed door. Her eyes were wide, mouth pulled into what may have been a painful line, eyebrows crumpled. Her fingers were splayed out on the door and he could hear her breathing hard and shallow.

Can they really fake fear this well? The ones he feared did not strike him as actors of any sort. But still. Still. A possibility. A way to destroy him. Watch him die. Gettohisfamily.

Draco took a step back as well, one hand floating behind him to check his path, another held out in front of him, palm facing the floor, ready to do whatever it took to defend himself. He could hear his own breathing along with hers. They stared at each other. His mind was blank now, any thought replaced with buzzing adrenaline.

Moments passed, probably. He didn't know. It wasn't a great concern. Her pupils dilated and her breath began to shake, her eyebrows pressing further towards each other. It was quick, most likely. No sure way of telling. And then her expression calmed slowly, wrinkles in her forehead finally relaxing, her hands letting go of the door. Her mouth relaxed last, settling into a tiny frown while the rest of her appeared mostly calm. She sniffed, the sound making them both flinch a bit. Draco shuffled backwards a bit more, his calf pushing up against the bed.

Hermione took a tiny step forward, and then shuffled herself to the right, standing in front of one of the chairs arranged against the wall but not sitting. It was the right chair. His mother always sat in the left. They should know that. They should have sat in his mother's chair. A threat. Alwaysmethodicalalwaysathreat-every time. Why not just do as he expected of them? Why play with him so?

She took a deep breath. He heard it, saw her mouth open, saw her expression flash back to one of fear before she calmed again.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Her voice rung in the air. Definitely them. She would have called him Malfoy, wouldn't she? But wouldn't they call him something more demeaning? Maybe they were being monitored. Maybe this was something he needed to glean information from - hidden message, yes. Made sense.

She watched him carefully for a moment, her eyes travelling across his face rather invasively. "I have a few questions for you," she said flatly. Of course. They wanted to know. All of it.

She suddenly turned her head, finding the chair behind her. Facing him again, she held up her chin and cocked an eyebrow, an expression that was amazingly similar to the ones he had seen on her in school. But different, less sure and with an air that suggested the wind could crack her. It was an entirely unusual twist. They should look haughty. They had won, he was dead in their arms now. "May I sit?"

A moment. She watched him. He expected her to do it anyways, but she waited. Strange. He glowered at his visitor, eyes slowly leaving her to expect the chair behind her. She waited still. Meeting her eyes again, he nodded quickly. She sat, crossing one leg over the other immediately. She went back to watching him.

Adrenaline. His mother. His mother. His mother. Death. Torture. Theywerehereandtheywouldkillhimkillhimkillhim.

Her brown eyes continued watching. She blinked, finally turning her gaze to the window behind him. He swept his head around to face it, terrified. Through the window? Coming through the window?

But there was nothing.

He turned back to face her slowly. She looked at him and then looked to the bed, a clear gesture for him to sit. He did so immediately.

* * *

He was hunched like a predator, those grey eyes boring into hers. They seemed as if they were digging deep into her soul, yet at the same time seeing through her. He had dark bags underneath his eyes, his hair hung at wild angles across his face. It needed to be cut, she thought. His bruises and cuts were almost all healed that she could see, which made sense in a wizarding hospital. It caught her off guard that a few still dotted his face. The injuries must have been caused today. Was he hurting himself in here?

His glowering had unnerved her for the first five minutes or so. They had stared at each other, both of them looking ready to flee, she imagined. A panic attack had been so close, but she had remembered her breathing exercises. He couldn't hurt her in here, after all. The magic on her as well as in the room would prevent him from touching her.

She slid off the bag that was slung across her shoulder, reaching deep inside to retrieve her notebook and a pen.

God, did he ever blink? She found herself staring back, studying every feature and twitch of his with blatant curiosity, eyes wide. It wasn't often that she could simply observe someone like this. She wondered if he thought it was rude, or if that sort of thing occurred to him anymore. If it did, he neglected to say anything. His mouth did seem to twitch involuntarily, just as it had on the magazine cover. His clothes were still rumpled but not as badly as in the photo. He seemed a bit less thin. Overall, physically he seemed to have improved. But his eyes were somehow both piercing and glazed over, as if he were seeing into another world very very clearly. His hands were on his knees, fingers not quite drumming but pressing into his legs intermittently.

Another breath. Her eyes left him to read the questions she had written for him on her notebook page. She had taken some questions from her own psychologist, others from her new books. Some were things she had seen magazines ask over and over. Some she just wanted to ask.

"This is strictly between you and me. I will not share this information with anyone else."

His gaze focused for a moment and he looked quite confused.

She continued, "I have a few questions for you today, and I hope you will answer me to the best of your abilities." Deep breath. Meet his eyes. His fingers had stopped moving, and it looked like he was back on Earth.

"Do you understand?" She murmured the question, much quieter than she had meant to. She had a pattern now: read a question, take a breath, watch his reaction. Not too bad so far.

After about a minute of staring, he slowly lowered his chin. She took it as a nod and nodded back curtly, feeling her curls bounce around her face.

"How do you feel today?" She read off. Deep breath. Meet his face. His expression was suddenly incredulous. He appeared more relaxed, shoulders a little lower than they had been, back a little less hunched, his hands lying lightly on the sides of his thighs rather than twitching about on his knees. Eyes narrowed, his head slowly cocked to the side, as if he were trying to read a script that he wasn't sure was right-side-up.

Very abruptly, he made a barking sound. Hermione jumped, staring indignantly at the tiniest of smiles that ghosted across his face. Had that been a laugh?

She supposed it was. An inhuman one, but perhaps he had not laughed in a while. When he spoke, his voice was lower than she remembered. He sounded unnaturally gravelly. Perhaps he hadn't spoken in a while either.

"Quite an intriguing question, Granger. How does Draco Malfoy _feel_ today?" She thought his smile looked less cruel than it used to. Bitter perhaps, but not evil by any means. Oddly, she felt a little bit of comfort from his familiar rude tone. At least he hadn't become a complete animal. The human was still inside, awful as said human might be.

"I had hoped to start off on a polite note." She clipped. His eyebrow arched and her stomach immediately turned, remembering her earlier panic attack. To keep it at bay she looked away from him, out the window again.

"Ah, yes. Always the most polite one, you were." Immediately, she thought about how she had hit him before.

"Just answer the question so we can move on."

"Eager to pick my brain?"

"Eager to finish this and go home." She was facing him now, glaring fully. He had relaxed exponentially, smirking in his old trademark way. It felt less demeaning somehow, but still infuriating. Without meaning to she huffed, sounding like a put-out schoolgirl. He chuckled at this, and while the sound was still gravelly it was less frightening than his earlier laugh had been, low and relaxed, almost amicable.

"Well then, I suppose we should begin. I wouldn't dream of wasting your precious time."


	4. Chapter 4

"How are you feeling today, Mr. Malfoy?" The sudden and rapid changes in his demeanor were unnerving her. She needed to get this done quickly so that she could go home and take some of her "emergency medicine".

One moment he had seemed eerily similar to the Malfoy she knew at Hogwarts. The next, the muscle in his jaw was working and he stared guardedly in her direction through narrowed eyes.

To be fair, she supposed his suspicion made sense. She wondered if the secretary witch had magically warned him ahead of time or even asked his permission for her entrance. No matter what sort of security they had him under, they wouldn't force people upon him, would they? But his reaction had been so surprised and so strong. How many visitors had come to see him, anyways? He had cronies back at school, but perhaps not quite friends. Regardless, Hermione had been allowed in simply for meeting a fan. Were they showing him off like a zoo animal?

"I feel fine, thank you." His voice was slow and steely. He seemed as if he was trying not to make any sudden movements. Each time he spoke it was a bit less gravelly. It would have been a somewhat nice voice, albeit robotic, had it not been Malfoy's.

Her eyebrows rose incredulously. "Fine?"

A glare was clouding across his features, moving in like a slow, dark storm. "Fine."

She swallowed, nodded, looked down and breathed. She had always been brave. She could do this. She began her questioning. Most of it was basic: "Where have you been?", "What have you been doing?", "Have you been in contact with anyone?", etc...

As the questioning went on, he seemed to relax on and off. When she asked if anyone had known of his location throughout his disappearance, he sniffed disdainfully. With his head held high, looking down at her through his pale eyelashes, for a moment he was the boy from Hogwarts. Just a bully with a rich father.

"Does your mother visit you quite often?"

He was slow with his answer, his chin dipping back down to a normal height. He was less focused on appearing proud, perhaps. For a moment, those grey eyes studied her. She swallowed hard, trying to meet his eyes without shaking anymore than she already was. His eyebrows furrowed a bit, perhaps at her reaction and perhaps in thought.

"I think so," he murmured finally. His aristocratic drawl was quite evident when he spoke quietly, and the bit of softening in his expression assisted Hermione in unclenching her back just a bit.

She was quite displeased with her findings. It seemed as if he weren't completely sure about much himself. When he did divulge details he hurried through run-on sentences and often repeated certain words over and over. Every so often his answers were one or two words that seemingly had nothing to do with her questions. She wrote those down and circled them in her notebook.

"Were you ever in danger?"

He stared at her hard. His lips twitched down for a moment, but that was all. A few moments passed, and she simply scratched in a blank underneath that question, added a star in the margins, and moved on. He was, she hoped, relaxing a bit and she did not want to push that. It was hard enough for her to be here already, though she thought to herself that she was doing well at appearing unaffected.

"Did you eat often?"

"Drink." It took her a quick moment to discern that the statement was both a correction and an answer. She wrote it down.

"Alcohol?"

"Most nights."

"Did you enjoy the outdoors as a kid?" She wanted to get away from any possible flashbacks to a drunken time, in case the memories were stressful for him. This question was meant to sound harmless and light. In reality, she suspected that a feeling of comfort may have drawn him into the forests at a time of great stress. From there, he could have gotten lost.

"Flying. The garden. Pansy." He paused, staring at the wall to his right, before tacking on "Ponds," as well. She thought it odd.

"What about ponds did you enjoy?"

Once again, he met her gaze, but for the moment his eyes were simply blank, open. It may have been that he wasn't totally alert, or perhaps she was seeing a completely unguarded Draco for the first time in his life.

"The fish. There were large ones in the garden, in the ponds there. Ducks in the winter." As he seemed to ponder that, she made a note: _Thinks for long periods of time about (simple?) details._ The parenthesis and question mark around "simple" were squished in as an afterthought.

At times when he seemed less alert, his fingers would travel to his knee or to his jaw. In either place they would press down hard, relax, and press again at strange intervals. It was like he was using his body as a stress ball. Between the scruff and the shadows that resulted from his back facing the window she couldn't be sure that the bruises she had seen earlier would match the shape of his fingers, but the thought made her want to pace or run or just move in any way possible.

"This won't be in a paper, then?" he asked abruptly. She jumped a little at the sound, but tried to smooth herself back down quickly.

"No, it will not. This is for personal research..." Her voice faltered and she looked at his eyes. He seemed as confused and uncertain as she felt.

"Research," he repeated. She nodded. He was beginning to bristle, but she ventured just a bit further.

"One final question. An original report of the night you were... _found_ states that an accidental hex was fired inside of the muggle police station. What do you know about this?"

She wished that she had kept her eyes down. He was shaking, hands suddenly balled into fists at the sides of his thighs. His forehead was creased, his mouth twitched, and his eyes were wide and wild, unmoving, focusing hard on her face.

"What do _I_ know? _Me?_ You want to- you said- that... this..." He was bearing his teeth, jaw and lips twitching while his eyes never left hers. She expected him to begin screaming and she very much wanted to cower. She wanted to, but she wouldn't.

Instead of rising higher in pitch and volume, the next time he spoke was impossibly low. His breath was shaking, he himself seemed to be trembling. He looked how she felt. Was he having a flashback? A panic attack?

"I think you know exactly what happened with that hex," and it felt like the most threatening thing anyone had ever said to her. She was done, and as quickly as she could she practically leapt from the chair, fumbled with the doorknob and threw herself outside of his room, slamming the door behind her. She ran the way she came, but slowed to a stop halfway back to the lobby area. Panting and shaking, she sat down on the floor in the middle of the hall, pulling her knees to her chest and hugging them as tightly as she could. There were no thoughts in her head, just the feeling that her blood was trying to eat through her and a buzzing noise in her right ear. Far away, she wasn't sure if this were better or worse than the times her brain refused to shut off.

* * *

Hermione was used to repression of her own volition. Sure, she could force back thoughts, skip around certain subjects, and distract herself like mad to avoid a day-ending flashback that would ruin her plans. But she wasn't used to doing it subconsciously anymore.

It must have been around a year since her brain had done this to her, and it brought back past frustrations with herself that she had long thought she had come to terms with.

The real Hermione would think about Draco. About what he said, how he looked, every movement. She would pull out her notes and make a map of things, do mind-numbing and mind-bending research, delving into a tough topic like none other. The real Hermione might -okay, probably would- even have another subject to research simultaneously. Since her disorder had sprung up, this sort of researching was exactly _how_ she avoided dangerous thoughts. Even before, however, she had always been known for loving her books, her information, her almost overwhelming amount of knowledge.

Today, however, she felt no will to do any of those comfortable, Hermione-like things. She sat in her office chair and stared into the distance, something wildly out of character for herself. She wanted to work hard, she really did. But her mind felt as if it were shrouded in a thick fog. Her eyes felt tired but her body did not, simply relaxing and breathing slowly. She should be taking notes of how the body tried to take care of itself, forcing relaxation and bringing her completely out of character. She couldn't be bothered to do so.

And when she did force herself to think Malfoy, her shoulders and back muscles would clench a little and she would find herself immersed in daydreams about becoming an owl and flying without fear, or mapping out the entirety of the Hogwarts castle all on her own.

Her psychiatrist, Dr. Wilkes, had told her that some people came to enjoy their repressive tendencies. Instead of mourning over loved ones, they would daydream constantly, lulled into safety without even a hint of fighting it. He mentioned that your brain often repressed things for the body's own good and a little bit of repression was to be expected, that she simply should not use it as a crutch and work to move on. For the first few months, whenever she caught her brain in such an unusual lull she would make a note of it and take it back to Dr. Wilkes. He told her it was helpful for him, but maybe not for herself so early on. That she needed to relax just a little in order to get back to normal.

She wondered if refusing her brain's try at help so early on had led to this ridiculous feeling. Then she wondered if anyone would notice if she napped at her desk.

Obviously, she didn't wind up doing something so un-herself. But she did wish she could have, at least a little bit. At least then she would have done something other than staring at her door for the full eight-hour day. She wanted to care, to be fed up with herself, but she couldn't even pull that much.

As she was closing the door behind herself, someone cleared their throat. She looked up to see Gregory Beak, looking down at her with worried brows. She smiled a tiny smile, and felt utterly defeated, unable to even fake an expression anymore.

He smiled back as jovially as possible. The man never really looked upset, and even in his concern she felt like she was looking at a slightly younger Father Christmas.

"Ms. Granger, dear, how was your break?" His voice was always loud, but he apparently was trying very hard to be quieter for her sake.

"Oh it was quite nice actually. Thank you very much for the help... I may have overworked myself however," she tacked on, hoping it was a good excuse.

His chuckle was loud but she wasn't in the same world as he seemed to be, so she did not flinch.

"Overworked yourself on your break, eh? Why am I not surprised? Did you at least get some rest?"

Her work at a smile continued on. "As much as I could muster, of course."

"Grand! You have a new special project then, I can assume?"

She faltered a bit, but her mind could not bring itself to really give a shit. "I suppose you could say that, yes."

"Ah, how typical of such a thoughtful person! By the by, the Missus and I were planning on having a cookout this weekend. I've invited about half the office so far, would you be interested in attending? Mary would love to see you again, and she keeps dropping hints for me to try to steal that cake recipe from you that you brought last time. Whaddaya say?"

"Oh, of course. That sounds good." God, she sounded like she had taken one too many pain pills.

"I'll email you the details then! Thanks much!" He began to walk away, but a few steps out he stopped and turned to look at her. "Oh, and Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"It's fine if you have a day or two that does not result in your best work, but let's not make it a habit, hm?" The reminder was gentle and accompanied by a grandpa-esque wink. Still, she felt horrible. Greg walked away, whistling to himself. Of course he hadn't meant anything by it, but... still.

* * *

Draco was pacing. Narcissa was unsure if she felt glad for his newfound energy or disturbed by it. Her son had always been a bit... dramatic. More so than his father, in fact. Lucius preferred his shows of emotion to be quiet, jarring, mysterious. His heir, while retaining the haughty demeanor of his parents, was never quite as aloof. To most outsiders, Draco was still a force of nature, something almost inexplicable. Almost constant attention had to be spent to keep track of what he might be thinking. To a Malfoy, however, his sort of personality was almost unacceptable. Usually, he kept himself at least partially masked. However, when pressed, he became overeager and rash, emotions spilling out without control. If a threat from Lucius was one from a fox, a threat from Draco was one from a wolf: volatile, emotional. He was both unpredictable and easily-read at the same time. More than once Lucius had explained away Draco's more obvious emotional outbursts as childish, but something the boy would grow out of. Yet, Draco had not.

He had pushed his bed from the center of the room to the far wall, up against the windows. The intricate threadwork of his new comforter shined in that sickening honey-colored light that forever permeated the space. Emerald and forest greens seemingly did nothing to soothe her son.

Once more, he reached up to push the phantom fringe from his face, hand falling as it encountered nothing. Certainly, his hair was still wild, a bit mussed, but it had been so long and disgusting when first entered St. Mungo's that the Healers had had it cut. Narcissa, for once, did not disagree with their decision.

Pushing it from his eyes must have been a nervous tic he had developed while living out wherever he had been. Malfoy's should not have nervous tics, and each time he reached up Narcissa lifted her chin a bit, a movement that should have reminded the young man of who he was. He no longer noticed these signs from his mother. It made her feel sick.

"My son," she ventured. He faltered, stopped. The final click of his heel echoed shortly in the room, the sudden absence of sound causing an unpleasant ringing in the regal woman's ears.

"Yes mother?" He almost stuttered. It sounded so wrong coming from him, a hiccup in his speech that had always been perfect.

"You seem upset. Has something happened?"

He stared for a moment. He looked proud, untrusting. It was better, she supposed, but not a look that she should have ever received from him.

"Yes. I had... That is, during your absence today there was... a visitor."

"A visitor? A nurse?"

"No. Not-... Not a nurse." His voice was clipped in comparison to her long, smooth words.

"Then who?" Anger was beginning to rise within her, but she only narrowed her eyes. They had allowed someone else _in_?

"Someone from Hogwarts."

"Pansy?"

"No, most certainly not Pansy."

"Theodore, then?"

"No. _Not_ a friend."

Flummoxed, a tiny wrinkle appeared in her otherwise flawless brow. The woman had been weakened for years by stress but had never lost her vanity. She shared a silent moment with her son, before he elected to share with her.

"It was Hermione Granger."

* * *

At home, she made herself some tea, barely collecting enough concentration to finish that task. Robotically, she found herself sitting on her couch, hunched forward, her arms crossed and laying over her legs. Her hair had grown long, and she allowed one finger to catch in a curl and play with it idly.

She was staring at one place fixedly. She would catch herself, try to shake it, move her gaze a bit, and then stare for a while at the next place that her eyes had landed.

Frustrated with herself, she lay down and closed her eyes altogether. That ought to do it.


	5. Chapter 5

Her fingers gripped at the fabric of the sheets beneath her, smooth and strangely unyielding. Her muscles had relaxed in a lovely way, practically melting into the bed. She lay on her stomach, arms and legs outstretched at strange angles. Her curls were soft and cool against her cheeks. It had been so long since she had felt so... blissful. Except-... There _was_ one thing. Even stranger than the bliss and such an odd combination with it. Yet, the ache was familiar. Just behind her bellybutton she felt a tugging and a slowly building warmth. She shifted her hips around, longing for _something_.

Still relaxed, she felt small touches along her back. They traced her shoulder blades, the tops of her shoulders... What felt like the rough pad of a man's finger whispered down the nape of her neck and a chill rippled down her back in a lovely way. The hands cupped her upper arms, smoothing up and down a few times before the fingertips trailed down more slowly, the light touches erupting goosebumps along her skin. They tickled the backs of her hands for a moment, then moved back to cup her ribs. Every touch was feather-light, ghost-like, almost a phantom of itself. Yet she still felt the yearning, the warmth radiating from the front of her body and she arched her back and pressed further into the bed. There was a warm wetness between her legs, soothing a bit of the ache for a moment and then pressing it further. She breathed out long and slow, a sigh escaping her lips as her body began to fidget. Her muscles were less relaxed now and almost buzzed with a life, a need to move, a need to-

 _SSSSSSSSSQUEEEEEEEEEEE!_

She jerked hard. Her eyes flew open, her muscles stiffened and she practically threw herself to one side in an ungraceful roll.

The kettle. It was the kettle, she had made herself some tea.

And she wasn't on a bed, she was stretched across her leather couch, hair thrown wildly across her face. She looked around for a moment. Those touches had felt almost real, and yet-

That was it. Almost. The kettle was still whistling on, the continued noise irritating her. She stretched her shoulders a bit and forced herself to get up.

Following the nap and the tea, she did feel strangely better. Better enough to feel guilty for her behavior at work, for sure. She did her best to shake it off, however, certain that she would make up for it tomorrow.

And for now? For now, she had notes that she was, out of habit, itching to go over. She put her mug in the dishwasher (she had installed quite a bit of muggle technology in her home) and pulled her notebook from her bag, leaving it on the coffee table. She grabbed some books from her library and carried them out, sitting down once again on the edge of the sofa.

 _Alright_ , she thought. _First, I'll compile all of the notes I took on his demeanor..._

By the time she had finished, she only felt the need to return. She felt fairly certain that he was suffering from some sort of mental illness, but, then again, she had felt sure of that before she had gone. A few of his answers could have been signs of either psychosis or simply him being aloof. Or maybe he was also suffering from PTSD and simply didn't want to broach certain things. Or, his lack of information could have been a sign of repression - though he had mentioned alcohol use.

"Ugh!" She rubbed her face and slumped back into the couch. Another trip would be necessary, but she would be smart about it. She would take a few days to relax, get back into a new project at work, maybe even talk to Ginny first. Then, when she did go, she would take one of her panic attack pills before she walked through the doors, to keep her from losing in the midst of a situation she knew would be stressful. Yes, that would work.

* * *

Draco Malfoy had looked deeply into those brown eyes before. He had seen the light, the curiosity, the hesitation that she was constantly pushing past.

They had brought in a wonderful actress.

His mother had not visited in the past two days.

He had rearranged the room.

Granger had not visited either.

Now, the bed was as far away from the windows as possible, resting where the visitor's chairs used to be, situated in the corner. One side was pressed against the same wall as the door while the head of the bed was pressed against the adjacent wall. Laying down, the wall was on his left, a small, white bedside table to his right. This way, Draco could watch both the windows and the door at the same time. The chairs were across from the bed, a bit farther away from his usual sitting place than they used to be.

He was sat at the foot of his bed, nibbling on a cracker, staring at the chair that his bushy-haired intruder had sat in previously. Her eyes had been exactly right, the expression so authentic.

They had dared to ask about the hex. Fucking dared to _ask_ like it wasn't all their bloody fault. And when they did he couldn't be a Malfoy anymore, couldn't be cool and aloof like his father had pressed him to be.

Why would they toy with him this way? Why make her seem so innocent?

Granger had always looked breakable. It had frustrated him that he could never break her. And then... And then- and then he had seen her broken. In the midst of all that time he had been just sicksicksick _constantlysickandunsure-failure._

Then they won. And he agreed with them that this world was better. Even with the monsters outside.

But _she_ shouldn't be a monster. She was sunshine and smiles and all the fucking righteousness in the world, thestuckuplittlebitch. And he hated it but she was supposed to be that way. There was order and peace and those _golden assholes_ got everything just the way they should have and it was all fine, just fine fine fine.

At least there was order with those idiots. They were predictable and they were in control so the world was predictable and all he had to worry about were the monsters.

Now the whole world was the monsters?

Fuckers. Now he had to worry about _everythingeverywhere_ not just _them_.

A little piece of him was holding on to hope that it _was_ Granger that had visited him. That that fucking idiot trio _hadn't_ let the whole world fall apart. Maybe then there was still something to do. For his mother.

She ran away from him. Granger. Last time. Why?

He would have to test some things next time she was there.

Would she come back?

How many days had he been here?

Suddenly, he got to his feet and headed to the bathroom. He stared in the mirror again. Stubble. Actually, no, almost a beard at this point. His eyes were less red. The bruising was fading. He should request another razor, he hadn't used the last one since it had gotten a little too dull and nicked him.

His fingers kept up a drumming noise on the ivory of the sink. It was nice. Noise. It was so quiet here.

He could talk, but he didn't want to draw attention. Maybe they were outside. Or inside.

He tried not to approach the windows.

Remembering himself, he tried shifting his expression. He looked like an animal. And not a respectable one.

He should be looking down at people from over his nose, not glowering up from under his eyebrows.

He straightened the black tie he wore. His mother had brought him a wardrobe, but he was not allowed to don robes in the hospital. That meant he was constantly wearing black slacks, a white button-down, and a black tie. Always the same outfit, multiple pairs of every piece of clothing in his tiny night-table drawer. Everything was wrinkly, though he did his best to keep things crisp. He had no hangers and he disliked clutter, so he couldn't very well lay clothes out, even if he had a place to lay them. And he missed his robes. He looked like a muggle.

Back in society. The newspaper that came by had used that term. " _We want to give the people a first look at how you're enjoying your return to society."_

What society was it?

All monsters? All fake? To break him?

But perhaps not. Perhaps the emotion in Granger's eyes had been truthful.

Why would anyone even want to fake being that bint?

He smiled a bit despite himself. That was the best argument he had thought of yet. No one would want to fake being her. Had they wanted to show him that the entire world was a mess, they would have made an appearance as Potter, or, even worse, his own father. Had they simply wanted to irk him, it would have been the Weasel. Throw him off, Astoria.

His mother was obviously who she said she was. No question.

But Granger?

There was no reason in hell to want to be Granger.

He smoothed his hair back, opting for moving the short fringe up and to the side. It was a look that he had adopted after they chopped his hair off. Bastards.

Turning on the sink, he splashed a bit of water on his face. He had showered the night before. He felt like he couldn't wash enough to remove the grime.

A Malfoy should never look in so much disarray. Even as a captive in this god-forsaken hospital. He should do better to remember it.

He caught himself thinking that often. The same words would repeat once or twice after a few days, whenever he really saw himself in the mirror. But somehow time would pass and no matter how short it seemed, the next time he saw himself he looked messy once again.

It was disgusting.

When was Granger coming back?

How would he test her? What about his mother, when would she return?

"Can't even send a fucking owl," he muttered, kicking the base of the sink.

* * *

Hermione had found the perfect project.

The weekend came and she found herself in the front yard at the Beak's home. Greg's wife, Mary was a very short, very perky, dark haired woman. She had greeted Hermione with an incredibly tight hug, which had been awkward seeing as Hermione was balancing a cake with one arm and trying to hug back with the other. As soon as she was released, she was taken by the hand and led inside. The Beak's home was all rich browns and reds, cheery and inviting, just like its owners. She left the cake on the red brick counter, listening to Mary's chatter as she followed her to the back yard.

She wasn't necessarily a party person. There were books back at her home that seemed to call from her even from this distance, but she was hoping spending some time out and about might do her some good. Besides, she felt as if she were on rocky ground with Greg, and she could use some brownie points. Hermione Granger was not one to fall short of high expectations.

For the most part, she greeted her peers with a thin smile, trying to crinkle her eyes a little more to further the charade. Polite hellos, congratulations for her last project, and friendly nods were exchanged as she meandered her way across the tiny yard. As she reached a small glass-topped yard table, she noticed one other person that seemed just as content to sit and watch the goings-on quietly.

The old witch, Suzannah Godfry, had been hired just two years ago. The frail, greying lady had a lot of fire in her. Her dark skin was etched with deep wrinkles, a few scars on her hands that Hermione had never convinced her to explain. At first, Hermione had been under the impression that Mrs. Godfry was simply in charge of filing, nothing more than a secretary. However, over the past month working on her big case, the brunette had visited Suzannah time and time again, only to realize that the woman was akin to a walking encyclopedia. Even more surprising, Mrs. Godfry had some pressing work of her own. Work that, as of late, required a partner.

"Ah, Hermione, so good to see you dear."

"And you as well, Mrs. Godfry! How have things been going?"

"Oh, fine. So much work to be done, though. Honestly, I don't know what I'm doing here, I'm in the middle of such a puzzle."

"Oh?"

"Yes! And with this whole book nonsense my work desk has become such a giant mess."

The old witch's original intent had been to re-catalogue and sort through all known species of magical creatures to better classify between "Beings" and "Beasts". She had been working with many professionals in order to find more organized and ascertainable criteria. Within the last month, however, she had been contacted by a fairly successful author who wanted to work with her and publish her research. Mrs. Godfry was a diligent worker, but the book had taken much more of her time than she had anticipated and she lamented it to Hermione often when they spoke.

"I can imagine, it sounds like a lot. But surely you're excited to have your work published? You certainly deserve some recognition after all that you've done!"

The older witch laughed, a pretty, grandmotherly sound. "My dear, I've deserved recognition half my life. And yet, now, while I'm getting it offered to me it just feels so... I don't know, so flimsy. What I really want in this stage in my life is to spend time with my family. My granddaughter is coming to visit me two weeks from now, and I just want to spend the whole time treating her. She's such a smart and sweet little girl. So much more important than some silly book."

Hermione smiled warmly. The words "some silly book" made her giggle a little internally. She truly did love talking with Suzannah.

"You know Hermione," her dark brown eyes looked up suddenly, meeting Hermione's over her glasses. "I really could use some help organizing things. From working with you before, I've gathered that you know a lot about this subject?"

"Oh, it's very dear to my heart. Once I realized just what you were doing, I read all of the notes and papers that you had published on the subject."

Suz laughed, almost a hum. "Why don't you think about giving me a hand over these next few weeks? It'll be time consuming, I know, and maybe not the kind of grueling work that you seem to love so much, so I understand if you'd rather not."

Hermione was shocked, and for a moment she hesitated. It really wasn't in her nature to commit to this sort of task when so much more was available for her to do.

And yet, she had been feeling incrementally better after her few days of doing practically nothing. Other than trying to figure Malfoy out, of course. Besides, she adored Suz's work. Perhaps working with this would be just as rewarding as her last project.

"Actually, that sounds great!" She grinned, and this time it was actually real. Feeling a bit paranoid, she tacked on, "I've been looking for a way to clear my head while I try to work out what my best next step is." She didn't want to seem too out of character, and it was mostly true.

"Lovely! And if you decide at any time that you need to get to work on something else, you just let me know!"

Later in the night, Hermione found herself curled up on her couch again, a big, heavy blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The only light was from the lamp sitting on the table to her left, and she was flipping through some files that she had borrowed from the Archives at the Ministry. As soon as she had left the party (wading through the sea of hugs and "oh thanks for coming" 's that was Mary Beak) she had apparated back to the Ministry, writing herself a special pass for Archive information.

(Now getting permission for _that_ had been a chore. About a year prior Hermione had spent weeks going back and forth to the Archives, only taking documents back to the designated work rooms. She felt that the time spent away from her office was silly, considering that she knew more about the care and keeping of old books and documents than probably the secretaries in charge of the Archives did. Trying to find permission to remove Archive documents had felt almost like a wild goose chase, but countless emails had finally gotten her to the stooped old wizard that was in charge of Archive keeping.)

She had three folders filled with letters sent from Suzannah Godfry to heads of other departments, equal parts arguing a case and asking for input. The woman was incredibly thorough, and Hermione did not want to do a shoddy job in organizing her files. She herself knew the importance of well organized notes, so she was studying ahead.

Now, however, sitting alone and surrounded by darkness she remembered quite suddenly the words that had shaken her so greatly before.

" _I think you know exactly what happened with that hex."_ An uncomfortable roiling in her stomach appeared. She wondered if the nauseousness that shook her was the result of an upcoming panic attack or if it were just her nerves.

She wanted to shake it. Her day had gone somewhat well, and she didn't want it ruined now.

 _Maybe if I just think about this. Maybe if I feel like I know what he was talking about I'll be able to relax._

But why would she know what had happened with the "accidental hex?" What did he mean by that? And why had he gotten so suddenly angry, as if she were personally at fault?

Maybe she had imagined his anger. Or maybe she had pressed too far and he was just lashing out. After all, she hadn't gleaned much information from her interview. She wouldn't know if something particularly disturbing had happened before or after the hex. It wasn't unlike Malfoy to hide behind threats.

 _Git,_ she thought suddenly, furrowing her eyebrows.

Thinking back to the boy she had known at school, it really could have all been an act. What reason did she have to think that he was at all different from that spineless little jerk? It could have simply just been his way of being spiteful. Yes, in fact that seemed much more probable than any other expectation she had had.

 _That was it!_ It was like a lightbulb went off in her head at the thought of Malfoy from her school days. And accidental hex - she _had_ seen one of those! Back when Ron was using a hand-me-down wand, he had tried to jinx Malfoy and had instead jinxed himself.

Was Malfoy's wand broken? Was that why he had become so sensitive so quickly?

She lounged back into her couch, smiling to herself. It all made sense, everything she knew about Malfoy's personality seemed to fit with his sudden reaction now that she thought about it.

It had always made her feel wonderful to solve a puzzle, and her hands were only still shaking a little bit.


End file.
